Last night was the second night in a row I didn’t sleep. This is new to me. Usually, I sleep too much, but lately, I can’t at all. I think a curse has been cast upon me. Granted, it’s only been two days and I may be blowing this out of proportion. But I’m a common man, one who, for the most part, lives a simple life. One could even go so far as to call it luxurious, aside from these past two days. Therefore, I’ve concluded that this sleep deprivation is entirely out of my hands. It’s something existential, beyond my comprehension; and yet I look forward to discovering the reason.
This is comparable to a story about my cousin, Tommy. He isn’t bright, but he’s a genius. Often times he’ll unintentionally illuminate ways in which this universe operates. I guess that could be the definition of a genius, one who does great things without ever really aspiring greatness. This particular story involves a train, and a gooey piece of gum. He was taking a train from Chicago to San Francisco; his motives are of no importance to this story. Tommy thought he had missed his train, and the one he thought was his started to leave. Only, this train was across the tracks, and clearly heading east, not west. But that didn’t register to Tommy. He grabbed his two rugged suitcases and rapidly headed toward the train when that fresh, gooey piece of gum latched onto his leather shoe. The gum grasped him so well that Tommy had to stop. The squish with every footstep irritated him, and not so much by the fact that a selfish person would spit their gum on the station walkway, but the unknown reason for arraignment of these two objects. He looked down to the bottom of his shoe where the slimy, now stringy mess glued him to the ground. Tommy looked toward the sky, and then straight ahead where a train whizzed past him; the collar of his jacket swaying, and his eyes closing invariably by the force of the train. If Tommy had taken one more step, that train could have taken his life. But more importantly, when that train left the station another
pulled up, the one headed west toward San Francisco. Maybe my lack of sleep will introduce me to my train?
I am an art collector. After receiving a very nice settlement from my mother’s death, I came to New York and purchased a loft. The loft is pretty standard, one with open windows and tall ceilings. There are wooden beams protruding from the floor, and hardly any walls. It is cold and nearly empty, and I like it that way. My view isn’t anything to brag about, in fact, it looks straight into another loft. I’ve been here four years, right after my mother died. Two months ago a man moved into the loft across from me. I catch him staring into my pad once in a while, usually with a set of binoculars. He isn’t very sly about it either. At first, when I would catch him, he’d get up and walk away. Now he just directs his binoculars toward me and sits down, as if he’s awaiting some sort of show. I’m figuring that he’s just scoping my art. I guess, in a way, he is getting a show. I’m not sure what else this man does. He seems to be home quite often, like me, but his windows are draped, unlike me. I like to watch the gloomy days of New York pass me by. It’s not for everyone, but I like to know I’m living and dying at the same time.
He could be the one casting the spell. Or maybe he’s just inhabited by my lifestyle. Maybe my deprivation is a result of my dreams. The night before I stopped sleeping I had a terrible nightmare. I relived the final moments with my mother. The recollection hurts too much to divulge great detail, but she was murdered by a vitamin corporation who mistakenly mixed oxyconton in a batch of B12 tablets. She died from trying to live, which could have been her mistake. I realize my lack of sleep has taken its toll on my mental state. She- the girl whose name I refuse to glorify- felt so compelled to call me delusional; this of course after our conversation about my neighbor, whom since this morning hasn’t laid his binoculars off me.
“Yes, I know, you’ve told me about him. So why haven’t I seen him doing it?”
“How would I know? Maybe that would be too suspicious, you know- if I had an alibi, or a witness, then he wouldn’t be able to carry out his plan.”
“And what plan is this?”
“Not sure yet. Either he really likes art, or he’s planning to kill me.”
“Maybe he’s gay?”
“Ya…maybe. But I don’t think sex is his motive.”
“Does he play with himself while he watches you?”
“Oh come on, now this has gone too far.”
“Well, that’s not exactly an odd scenario. It happens all the time.”
“Fine, you’re right. But no, he doesn’t…play with himself. He’s been watching me all day, ever since I woke up.”
“How many days have you gone without sleep?”
“Two.”
“Ya, ok. You’re delirious.”
“You bitch. I’m not. This is a critical matter I have on my hands here.”
“Well, you better wash em with some good soap. I have to go back to work.”
“Wait, come over when you’re done. Please. Hello? Hello? Bitch.”
It’s six p.m. The man is still staring at me. I don’t really care as much. I’m simple and boring, and soon enough he’ll figure that out. I am an art collector, mainly undiscovered and amateur art. I’ve always liked art, but after my decision to cease working, it became a fundamental part of my life. Even before, when I was a working man, I never discovered what I loved. I was a mechanical engineer, operating heavy machinery for damns and waterways. The money was good, and it funded my life. It helped me survive while slowly choking the life out of me. After my mother died, I quit my job, and my life fell to pieces. My wife, the woman whose name I refuse to glorify, left me. She took my daughter, Amelia, whom I haven’t seen since. The woman tells Amelia I ran out on them. I didn’t. I only ran out on my unhappy life. These details aren’t vital to the story.
I look out the window. It’s six thirty pm and I’m still alone and still being watched. I wouldn’t have called the woman, but she’s unfortunately one of the only people I can turn to. Living a life as an art collector can become reclusive, and though I meet and talk to many talented artists and agents, they never become friends, only business allies. If I admitted somebody was scoping me and their art, they would surely never sell to me again. So I must protect my investments as they hang from the rafters and ceiling. They hang from wires connected to beams. The art sits on the floor and stand on easels. The art has become my friends. They see what’s going on, and they believe me. I just hope they’re prepared for another sleepless night.
It’s six o clock a.m. He is standing and staring. I look at him, frazzled and tired. He looks very sharp and handsome. His hand reaches for the window. I take a step back and he hesitates. This eases me, and he continues to open the window. I walk closer to mine and then I see him stepping out onto the ledge. What is this madman doing? Does he want me to call for help? Is this a cry for attention?
He is waving his arms and suddenly freezes. I get it. He’s mocking a very familiar painting. A piece of art I collected while visiting San Francisco from Chicago. It’s called “hello and goodbye for the final time,” painted by Mario Visconti. I turn around and see the large painting. It frames my silhouette. The large black hands on the top, in motion, as tiny red hands flock toward the ground. There is an eyeball in the palm of every hand, and hidden in the lifelines of the palms are various smiles. It makes me smile, and I turn my attention back towards this enigma of a man. His demeanor is now serious as he raises his hand to his mouth. He kisses it and blows on the palm.
It’s six thirty am. The man spreads his arms and dives off the ledge. I already hear the sirens.
Floating through the air is much more serene than imagined. Nearly all thoughts are erased, and the sounds of the busy city have converted into a gentle, angelic whisper. I am an art collector. It’s the one thing I love doing. But there’s something else I yearn for- the creation of art. I’ve purchase ample amounts in hopes of inspiring my own work, but I’ve never prospered the way I envisioned, until three sleepless days ago, when I found art in life and emulated its beautiful wounds. Thank you life for bleeding death, this is my final, and only piece of art for you to remember me by. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. It feels so nice to wave hello and goodbye without the worry of generating a response. I’ll call this piece “Engine No. Mine- Destination Nowhere.”
